


Desperation and Chaos (Alternate Ending)

by Lastpretense



Series: Desperation and Chaos [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Addition triggers enclosed, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Enjolras, Canon Era, M/M, Prompt Fill, but still romantic, check, if you have triggers, its complicated, otherwise they spoil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:42:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1421905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lastpretense/pseuds/Lastpretense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an alternate ending, and is a complete story. The previous work features a different ending, but I rework it after several request. This piece can stand alone, and reading the previous version is not necessary.</p><p>When the barricade is fails, Enjolras and Grantaire are captured. They are detained and questioned over the course of several days. Their greatest (and only) advantage is the governments ignorance to Enjolras' true identity as leader of the revolution. </p><p>From this prompt:<br/>"can i just have a fic where les amis (or just e and R are captured) but they kill R in front of e to try and get answers but that completely breaks enjolras?</p><p>and he starts getting snarky or sarcastic and they tell him to be serious or they’ll kill him too and he stays quiet for a long time but when he looks back up to them he has tears in his eyes and he’s all “I’m wild." "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperation and Chaos (Alternate Ending)

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings, scroll down fast if you don't want spoilers
> 
> attempted/threatened sexual violence, torture, Panic attack/hyperventilation

The barricade began to fall almost as soon as it rose.

The rebels clung together for one night, deluding themselves with jokes of victory, while jumping at the bang of a window and loading guns for if the shadows came alive.

 The reports came in the early morning, a wisp of a teenager flitting through the alleys in the gray of dawn to whisper the news to the leader. Hoards of troops to smash the rebellion, the brutal fist of the government preparing to strangle the revolution. The people had less nerve than Enjolras had believed, for they were they only barricade left. Hilariously ironic really, that the people’s rebellion had been doomed to failure by those it was for.

 Enjolras felt like a fool. It was clear that France was not ready for freedom. This fight should have been left to another day. He had led his friends naively and he was still marching them to their deaths. The faint beat of the enemies drum ought to sound out as a cry to retreat to any with a shred of self-preservation, but ever faithful, Enjolras’s forces did not abandon him.

 The thundering beat of the royal troops closing in around them spiked adrenalin in their blood and hastened their hearts to a galloping pace. The weary rebels straightened their backs and put on brave fronts. Their hands clenched white around their guns, though some had no ammunition left. Jutting out their jaws, they sealed themselves not to die cowards. They would stand by each other as men, as comrades, as friends.

That is, if Enjolras had not ordered differently

“Revolution shall never end until freedom is achieved; such is the nature of progress. However, the fight shall not be today. I appreciate all that you have given for me, for Patria. You have faultlessly followed me. So heed me now as I beg of you, go now.”

A few eyes widened, whether in shock, relief, or a mixture of both is debatable. Enjolras was somber as he spoke from atop a breadbox, a sad mockery of the pedestal such a god deserved.

“This battle cannot be won! To continue would be suicide, hardly a noble death.”

 The commands of the leaders of the army echoed down the street. A frantic rush began to escape. Before pride had held them fast, but now the fear reared. Students scrambled, pushing to reach the back alleyway first, almost climbing one another in desperation. Jehan got pushed from where he was standing with Courfeyrac, and would have been trampled if not for Combeferre's quick hands.

The soldiers turned the corner to march onward to the barricade. Dust billowed from the synced footfall, shrouding the forces in mystery.

Enjolras began yelling directions to the remaining occupants of the barricade, taking charge as he always had, but this time he was ordering them in the best manner to flee. “Through the buildings! Stop trying to climb the back barricade. Go through the alley. Run, men, Run!”

The soldiers had halted in front of the barricade. Less than a dozen rebels remained.

“Ready.”

Enjolras looked desperately at those still there. He recognized the faces. They were his friends, the first to follow him, and the last to leave him.

“Aim.”

He gestured emphatically for them to leave. Combeferre beckoned back to him, signaling that Enjolras should come to. 

“After,” Enjolras mouthed back. Combeferre nodded, pushing others through the back alley. Joly and L’egles left grudgingly, but both were trying to force the other to leave, so in the end, they were pulling one another away.

“Fire!”

Everyone who remained, which was now very few, flinched before the crack of gunfire even sounded.

When the bang did echo across the barricade, several ducked for cover. Enjolras was tackled from the side, the wind knocked out of him when he hit the cobblestone. He blinked up in confusion with a light groan of pain at Grantaire, who was crouched on top of him, shielding him with his body.

The bullets ricocheted off the street, shattered the few glass windows, and embedded in the buildings. One hit a pillow, filling the air with billowing, downy, white feathers like from an angel's wings. One bullet whizzed through the air and hit Combeferre in the stomach. He looked resigned, as if he this was a minor annoyance that he did not have time for, but must deal with anyway. Combeferre fell to his knees and then back, his glasses skewing slightly across his face. He blinked slowly, listening to his heart pound.

“Get him out of here!” Enjolras was still struggling to maintain calm, but as the soldiers mounted the barricade, the panic seeped into his voice.

Bahorel hoisted Combeferre over his shoulder, throwing Enjolras a final nod before turning from the barricade. Courfeyrac ducked out behind him, dragging Jehan behind him. Jehan's hair had come out of its braid, a few remnants of flowers shriveled and tangled in his dirty hair. He bit his lip as he looked at the near-abandoned barricade, eyes brimming with tears. It is hard for a romantic to see life cruel, without even poetic hope about it. Courfeyrac tugged him faster, almost tripping in his haste.

Grantaire rolled off Enjolras, tugging the blond upright. Any other time, Grantaire would have been at least a little flustered by such close contact, but the current situation did not permit. Anxiety over potential death is a real mood killer.

“Come on. You need to go!” For once, Grantaire’s words were not slurred with drink. The fire that had long burned in the eyes  those who felt their heart stirred by revolution, for the first time was in blue eyes of the cynic, who had never been worked to a fervor by Enjolras’s speeches, but instead engaged him in petty argument, infuriatingly immature and drunk. Yet now, as the first soldier toppled over the barricade, it was not Combeferre, Courfeyrac, or Jehan who stood beside him, but Grantaire.

 Calloused hands pushed Enjolras to the exit, and for once, the blond followed other’s orders. They stumbled towards the alleyway, but it was too late.

A large hand grabbed the back of Grantaire’s old shirt, tearing the threadbare fabric slightly. Grantaire lurched dangerously backwards, and when he threw out his arms to steady himself, two soldiers caught them. He was kicked in the shins, forcing him to his knees.

“Enjolras, go!” The leader was nearly to the exit, but it went against every instinct he had just to leave someone.

A solid blow to the head from the butt of a rifle that he never saw coming, knocked Enjolras out. He slumped forward and the last sound he heard was Grantaire scream. The lieutenant stepped out from behind Enjolras, slinging his gun back over his shoulder.

He rolled Enjolras over with the heel of his boot. Apart from a scratch on his cheek from the cobblestones, Enjolras looked ethereal as ever, long eyelashes splayed on his cheeks, lips barely parted, a true fallen angel.

Grantaire, who had cried out a warning to Enjolras too late, dropped his head forward, dark curls falling over his face in dejection. With his arms held out by soldiers, he looked like Jesus on the cross, which was an ironic resemblance since he never fought for this cause and the only god he believed in was Enjolras. When the butt of a gun came down on his head, he did not flinch, only slumped forward, leaving the soldiers holding to bear his full weight.

“Pick him up.” The lieutenant gestured with a kick to Enjolras’s stomach.

 And so the most unlikely pairing, the drunk and the leader were carried back to the headquarters of the Royal forces. They were locked into a cell that they would be greeted with when they woke. It would have been better had they never woken up.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Enjolras woke far more gently than he was thrust into unconsciousness. He could feel cold stone through his thin clothes, and worn fabric and warmth under his head. Thank god for that, because as it was his head pounded and ached. A hand gently brushed hair off his face and a voice, a low and raspy, whispered his name gently, but with a strain of urgency. Enjolras like how his name sounded said like that, like it-like he was the most important thing in all of France.

Enjolras’s eyes slowly fluttered open and his lips parted in a pained groan.

“Shh.” Grantaire patted his shoulder soothingly. “You're okay.”

Enjolras eyes shot fully open and he quickly sat up from Grantaire’s lap. The blood seemed to drop out of his head, the room spinning like a swing dancer, dark shadows flashing across his vision before retreating to the corners and finally slinking away.

“You’re an idiot. You should have run.” Grantaire tried to look scolding, but he was more concerned over how Enjolras held his temple, swaying slightly

“And you should have left when I told you too.” Enjolras countered, his voice clipped as it always was in debates with the cynic.

“Touché.” Grantaire acquiesced.

Enjolras scooted backwards to lean against the stone wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. The cell was small and all stone, with exception to a tiny window near the ceiling and thick wood door. The cell stank of mold, urine, and blood. Joly would have probably fainted from one whiff and might have actually gone into cardiac arrest if he could see the growth in corner.

Puffs of mist rose into the air with each exhale. Grantaire had wrapped his arms around himself to preserve his heat. He was leaning against the wall opposite from the door, and had to tuck his knees up to his chest, as Enjolras’s were stretched out in front of him.

Enjolras glanced at Grantaire who had his eyes closed and head leaned back against stone.

Grantaire never looked good per se, with his cheek red with drink, dark circles beneath his eyes, and if the night was wearing on, sick down his shirt, but now the man looked horrible. His skin was pale and clammy, and blood was matted in his hair and dried in a smear across his temple. Worst of all, his frame was seized with jarring shivers. In Enjolras’s memories of Grantaire, he recalls a drunk, who, like most of his kind, was rounded, as alcohol is hardly a healthy diet. The only reason Grantaire was not as fat as the nobility, was the days the money ran out and food was scarce.

Now, Grantaire was bony. He had lost his coat during the battle, and though it had been worn and ill fitted, it still had been something warm to wear. Now, all he wore was a thin, off-white smock and his trousers. His collarbones jutted out and his ribs were visible beneath the translucent fabric. His pants clearly only stayed up because of a rope tied around them. His eyes were haunted and gaunt, while his cheekbones were sharp and angular in comparison to the hollowed cheeks. Enjolras wondered how he could have missed this change. In truth, Grantaire began to waste away in direct correlation with the more enamored his friends became with their plans for a revolution he knew would not succeed.

Enjolras felt ashamed of allowing Grantaire to get to this position in this place, for Enjolras always saw everything as his duty, and likewise, his fault.

“I am sorry to have landed you here for a cause you never believed in.” Apology was not unheard of from Enjolras, but it was the first time he had asked forgiveness from Grantaire.

There were few things, which the cynic could deny Enjolras and he would always forgive him, even if Enjolras sold him into a life of torture by the devil himself.

Grantaire looked unconcerned, shrugging. “Eh. It’s not like my life was really going anywhere anyways.”

“No, you should have been able to live out you years as you chose.”

“To live an utterly unremarkable life, half my days sleeping off hangovers and the majority of the others to drunk to walk? To drink until all my friends and family abandon me, until one day the drink I adore kills me and my body is thrown out into the alley behind the bar like the old wash water? Enjolras, I am much gladder to be here.” Enjolras raised an eyebrow in disbelief. The idea that anyone would ever prefer imprisonment, their god-given freedom being trampled upon, was alien to him.

“Okay, not glad to be here specifically,” Grantaire gestured to the dank cell. “But to be with you.”

Enjolras nodded understanding. He was glad not to be alone, as much as he felt Grantaire should not be there.

They fell into an awkward silence, broken only by the chattering of Grantaire’s teeth. Both men were wading through their thoughts, a highly dangerous pastime. Visions of smoke and gunfire rattled through their brain, while haunting cries echoed in the recesses of their mind.

They were finally pulled from such ideas by the rattle of keys in their door. It swung open heavy and foreboding to reveal the commander of the army, flanked by lower ranking soldiers. He was a hardened man with a barrel chest and a strong jaw. He was not tall but his lack of height only served to make his chest and shoulders appear boarder. He was intimidating and well aware of it, though neither Grantaire nor Enjolras showed fear on their faces.

“Get up.” His voice was not gravely and low as Grantaire would have anticipated of such a man, but it was harsh and commanding enough that Grantaire stood, brushing his black curls out of his eyes.

Enjolras struggled to get to his feet, not wanting to seem weak, but a hiss of pain still escaped. He pushed a hand to his stomach, which was unexpectedly sore from the kick it had suffered earlier. Once standing, he swayed like wash hung out in a breeze.

Enjolras tried to recall his last meal, deciding it would have to have been breakfast the morning before the barricades. His head felt light and pounded, while leadened limbs seemed to drag him back to the floor. Grantaire looped an arm around Enjolras’s waist, helping the blond stay up. No one ever would have expected Grantaire to be the one Enjolras would lean on, but anyone would have agreed that it looked as natural as it is for earth to orbit the sun.

They marched down a hall, the commander in front, Enjolras and Grantaire behind, with the soldiers in back. They turned into an office, far bigger than their cell. It was sparsely decorated with just a heavy, ornate desk with various papers. The procession filed in, the soldiers lining walls and closing the door.

With the door shut and bolted, the room seemed stifling. Grantaire pulled Enjolras slightly closer to him, still supporting some of his weight. Enjolras did not protest and might have leaned into Grantaire a little bit too.

The commander sat down on top of his desk, legs dangling off, and clasped his casually. He grinned, but it was fake and unsettling. They would have preferred a glare.

The commander was animated and patronizing when he spoke. “So here is what is going to happen, boys. You are going to tell us who you leader is, where the rest of you rebels can be found, and where you meet, and maybe we won’t hang you both for treason.”

Enjolras, always so composed and professional, even leading his friends to battle, stared into the empty smile with an expression of disgust: disgust at this presumption bastard and his demands for betrayal of his friends, disgust at the corruption of the French justice system, and a little bit of disgust for the cowardice of the people of Paris, which had allowed this oppression to continue to be fought another day. Enjolras spat at the Commander’s leather boots. He had been aiming for his face, but it had been a long day.

The Commander’s eyes flashed dangerously. He stood, his feet hitting the ground with an ominous thump. Striding forward, he grabbed Enjolras’s face, with the aim of dramatically forcing Enjolras to meet his eyes, but he was already being glared at, much of the effect was lost.

“Listen here. You do that again, I’ll make it so you can’t even open your mouth. Got it?” The hand clenched tighter, pressing painfully on Enjolras’s jaw. Enjolras jerked his head in a nod. The man released his hand, resuming his earlier position. Red fingerprints blemished Enjolras’s marble complexion.

“Who is your leader?” Enjolras opened his mouth to reply, prepared to take full and rightful credit, his eyes narrow with anger, but Grantaire interrupted, which was common, though the circumstance might not be.

“We can’t answer that.” Grantaire’s voice was amazingly strong and unwavering.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t!” Grantaire sounded a little strained, his voice pitched higher than usual. “We have never met him.” He was convincingly, but not enough to convince the commander.

“Hit him.” A soldier punched Grantaire in the kidneys. He did not even gasp, used to taking a punch from plenty of bar fights, and even managed still to support Enjolras.

“Who is he?! Again.” This time Grantaire was punched under the rib cage, emptying his lungs of air. Doubling over, he lost his balance as he struggled to suck in breath, hitting the ground with a resounding smack. Enjolras swayed on his feet without Grantaire.

“Tell me who he is!” The commander had dropped his smile and any pretend cordiality, being an impatient man, his face reddening with anger. He kicked Grantaire in the chest. Grantaire let out a pained gasp as he rolled onto his back.

“Even if I knew, I would never tell you.” Grantaire’s voice had never held so much fire, so much belief. For once, he sounded equal with Enjolras, and no one in that room would ever doubt if Grantaire belonged with the rebels. He earned himself a kick in the face for his insolence. His nose began bleeding, thankfully not broken.

“Stop. For god sake, stop.” Enjolras looked sick at the bleeding figure of Grantaire, who had curled in around himself. His gray eyes shined as if near tears, but, of course, the mighty Enjolras does not cry. Statues have no tears.

Two soldier pulled Grantaire to his feet, where he hung like a rag-doll. They punched him again in the stomach. He lurched from the blow, but gave no protestation, apart from the rasping breaths that followed. Blood dripped from his lips, and he spat crimson to the floor. The Commander stared down at the cynic. Grantaire's eyes flicked up to his, before shifting to the side, meeting Enjolras's deep gray eyes. Grantaire mouth twitched into a smile even as he was struck again

“STOP.” Enjolras, even in this situation, was commanding. “I will answer your questions, just-just stop.”

“Really, you will?” The commander’s tone was mocking, as if he were pleasantly surprise at the outcome of a bet. “Okay, pretty boy.” Enjolras glowered at the name. “You can answer, but mind you, if you lie to me, you will not like the consequences.”

Grantaire was starring at Enjolras wide-eyed.

The commander repeated his question. “Who. Is. Your. Leader?”

“I-” Grantaire shook his head subtly at Enjolras. “I do not know.”

The commander nodded, his eyes to the floor and lips pursed, before meeting Enjolras’s eye. “I warned you not to lie to me, boy.”

He nodded at the soldiers, “Hold him back there,” gesturing to Enjolras.

 Murmurs of “Yes, sir,” came from the five soldiers, three still standing by the wall, with two still supporting Grantaire. Enjolras was compliant as hands restrained him and held him against the wall. He was determined to maintain his dignity. He held his chin high and defiantly kept eye contact with the commander of the royal army.

The commander's mouth almost smiled, and he looked rather put out. “Well looks like you two are really serious about this whole ‘not answering’ shebang.” Enjolras nodded curtly.

The commander shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets.” I guess we will just have to try questioning again tomorrow. But, how about we finish off with a demonstration of what will happen if you both continue to lie to me. Sound good, eh?” His demeanor slipped, his mouth curling in disgust. “I hold no mercy for treasonous brats like you.” He spat the word treason as if it was dirt on his tongue.

Stepping forward, he signaled for Grantaire’s release. Grabbing his shirt collar, he dragged Grantaire forward, and pushed him back against the desk. The commander’s massive hands clamped around Grantaire's neck, squeezing. The cynic struggled, clawing at the hands.

The first pain he felt began as a deep pulsing in his head, distancing the world from him, as blood struggled through compressed veins to his brain. Blackness began to fade in and out across his eyes, shadows attacking his consciousness. Desperately, he glanced at Enjolras as the burn began in his lungs, his body spasming as it tried to pull in air that was not available.

Enjolras from where he was pushed against the wall began to fight with all strength he had, cursing, threatening, and ordering the soldiers, who ignored all efforts equally. Enjolras threw a punch at the soldier nearest to him, who let go, but another replaced him. The blond looked full out panicked, his eyes crazed. He kicked, hit, bit, pulled, and kneed in futile attacks. Enjolras was tired, injured, and hungry, hardly a match for the noble forces of France. A burly soldier tackled him to the ground and, with one man sitting on his chest, another on his legs, and two pinning his arms, he was immobile.

Grantaire’s face was deep red and his movements were lethargic and slowing further by the minute. He heard a screach in his head, saw blurs of lights, and felt tingling pinpricks running down his limbs. Just as his eyes fluttered shut, the Commander let go. Bright colors burst in front of Grantaire’s eyes as he coughed weakly, without enough energy to lift his head. Enjolras was still screaming but a hand was placed over his mouth to muffle his voice.

Pinned, Enjolras was forced to bear silent witness. Grantaire flipped over on the table, his feet dragging on the ground and his chest pressed into the papers. His eyes were still fluttering softly, his body battling the confusion of oxygen deprivation.

A soldier pulled Grantaire’s shirt off, tossing it away. It landed just a few feet from where Enjolras lay, crumpled and thin, it had never been much protection at all, but now it looked pitiful.

Faced with the bare skin, the low weight was unable to be ignored. Grantaire’s shoulder blades looked sharp enough to cut, jutting out from his back, and the ridges of his spine looked like some reptilian creature’s. A few mottled bruises marred the pale skin, recent and still a deep red color.

It was not a secret to Enjolras what was going to happen, but he still hoped he was wrong. The commander pulled a leather whip from a drawer of the desk and Enjolras’s stomach dropped. Grantaire’s eyes were closed, and perhaps he also suspected the future, but he gave no sign.

The whip whistled threw the air and landed hard on Grantaire’s back. The blue eyes shot open and he yelped. With each following stroke, his scream grew more piercing, until it was a continuance sound. He flinched at each blow, as if it were as surprising as the first.

 Red lines crisscrossed his back, blood welling up in some places. By the twentieth blow, he began to sob, not loudly, but short and choked, tears slipping out from tightly closed eyes. At that point, Enjolras closed his eyes as well and tried to envision a world away from there, to tune out the yelling and the crack in the air of the leather, not to smell the metallic blood. He failed to find such respite. Grantaire did escape from it all though, as by the thirtieth stroke, he had passed out. 

The commander coiled his whip, replacing it in the drawer casually, as if he had not just beaten a man to unconsciousness, or perhaps he was simply used to doing that. Grantaire’s body slid off the desk and lay slumped on the floor

“Alright, take them back. We will speak again tomorrow.” He sat down behind his desk and began re-stacking the papers skewed by Grantaire’s body. The soldiers climbed off Enjolras, who jumped to his feet, forgetting the pain in his stomach. A soldier who had restrained Grantaire began to drag him along the floor by his feet, a blood smear following his bruised body.

Enjolras, grabbing the shirt from the ground, pushed the guard away violently. But, it was with exceeding care and delicacy that he picked up Grantaire, cradling the light body to his chest. Grantaire’s blood was undoubtedly staining his shirt, but Enjolras didn’t care.

The walk to the cell was silent and solemn. Before locking the door, a soldier slipped a two bowls of water, an old sheet, and a loaf of bread into the cell. Judging by the manner in which he glanced furtively around, he was not suppose to.

Enjolras lowered Grantaire to the floor, resting him face down on the sheet. He tore off the corner of the fabric and, after wetting it, began gingerly cleaning the lash marks on his back. At one point, Grantaire groaned in pain, but he did not wake. With all the blood gone, the injuries did not look so horrid.

Enjolras did not want to leave Grantaire uncovered in the cold, but he also did not want to risk infection from the dirty sheet. In the end, he decided to put Grantaire’s shirt back on. Dressing him was difficult with Grantaire unable to assist, especially as Enjolras was using all care to avoid causing further pain. After a good awkward twenty minutes, Grantaire’s was once again clothed and Enjolras was spent. He curled up on the sheet beside Grantaire and, shutting his eyes, joined him in the world of the unconscious. 

The reflected light from the tiny window was the only indicator of the progression of time, when Enjolras woke the next morning. Grantaire was snoring slightly, and looked much more peaceful, than the twisted grimace of pain he had worn the night before.

Enjolras sat up, moving from his position by Grantaire’s side to lean against the cell wall. Grantaire, with the loss of his companion, began to shiver. His eyebrows furrowed and his lips pouted slightly like a child when told it is time to go to bed. Enjolras gently pulled Grantaire over beside him, sliding the blanket along with them. He placed Grantaire’s head over his legs, the inverse of their position the morning before. Somehow, he did not wake through the maneuvering. Grantaire’s face relaxed as he adjusted to the new warmth. He tired to roll on to his side and curl his legs up to his chest, beside Enjolras’s body, but winced as he tugged the cuts on his back.

Enjolras petted his shoulder gently. Grantaire relaxed. He had rolled onto his back, but as he made no move to change position, Enjolras assumed (hoped) it was not paining him badly.

Enjolras moved his hands to Grantaire’s curls and began slowly working out the knots, careful not to pull, as flakes of dried blood fell onto his lap and the floor. Finally, the hair was soft and detangled, but Enjolras continued to run his fingers through it. It was nice. Grounding.

Had Enjolras ever doubted Grantaire (and he had), these thought fled now. Grantaire could have told the commander that Enjolras was the leader. It would be so simple, and then the attention would be gone from him. Enjolras would probably have been deeply questioned, perhaps publicly tortured, and executed, but Grantaire might even have been released to drink out the rest of his day. Enjolras had not expected Grantaire to remain mum and repeat his false story that was obviously not believed.

Grantaire looked very young asleep, a reminder that the rebels were but college student, hardly departed from the adventures of boyhood. Grantaire whimpered in his sleep, his face flinching in fear from a nightmare. With a final gasp, his eyes opened. They looked startlingly blue in the filtered morning light.

“Hey.” Grantaire smiled at Enjolras. He seemed quite content not to move from his lap.

“Good morning,” Enjolras replied.

“Not really a good morning, but I appreciate the sentiment.” Enjolras rolled his eyes at Grantaire’s ‘wit,’ if it even deserved to be called that.

“Hungry?” Enjolras held up the loaf of bread. It was a little burned down a side, and felt hard and stale, but it was edible.

“God yes.”

 Enjolras almost smiled at the reverent tone with which Grantaire replied. Enjolras ripped the bread and handed Grantaire the slightly larger half. Grantaire took a large bite, but chewed it very slowly, closing his eyes in bliss and mewling softly in the back of his throat. It was almost obscene. Enjolras ate with far less show. They only ate about half of each of their pieces, saving the rest for later.

Grantaire ended by smacking his lips happily and leaning his head back on Enjolras, crossing his ankles.

“You’re very comfortable, you know that?”

Enjolras furrowed his brows, “Um…”

“Eh, that was rhetorical. You don’t need to answer. So, when do you think big ol’ meanies gonna come back.” Grantaire was trying to joke but his voice was little strained, still admirably disguised when you considered he had right to be more than a little scared. They both did.

Enjolras was thrown by the sudden change of conversation, but only blinked once in surprise. “No idea.”

Grantaire was shaking, not visibly, but Enjolras could feel it. He squeezed Grantaire’s shoulder reassuringly, or so he hoped. Enjolras was not used to comforting others.

“Grantaire, it will be okay. Just tell him that I am the lea-“

“No,” Grantaire’s voice drops to barely more than a whisper. “Enjolras, if they know who you are, you are dead.”

“Even if they don’t know who I am, we are dead! But if we make a deal-“

“Enjolras.” Grantaire sounded pleading, his eyes soft. He pushed himself up to sit beside Enjolras. “I do not want to live in a world without you. Jesus, that sound’s sappy.” Grantaire looked embarrassed, but did not allow himself to get distracted. “I never thought this venture would succeed. I followed the cause because I believe in you. Anyways, this is basically my only chance to die a martyr, so just grant me that.”

Enjolras opened his mouth as if he wanted to argue, but thought better of it. His cheeks were pale pink and he stared at the floor awkwardly, but he nodded. He nodded that he would not answer the questions, that they would fight this together, that he would not sacrifice himself. And to Grantaire that nod washed him with relief like a bucket of cold water washes one with sobriety.

It was late evening when the government came calling again. They were not pleasant visitors, not at all. The commander’s eyes looked perpetually angry, so this was no exception. Perhaps he had an unfaithful wife, or a disappointing child, but it is more likely he simply was one of those few people who never find joy in anything other than black and white punishment and only feel strong when they stomp on those beneath them. Though in this situation, he had all the control, he in some ways had the least of every one, such a slave to power he was.

In the past, Enjolras might have pitied him, as an unaffected spectator, but now he hated him. It was a burning within him, where it was not just that mans action which he hated, nor what that man represented, but he reviled the blood that pulsed through his veins, the dandruff that flecked onto his shoulders, and even the dank air he dared breath with them. Enjolras glared at him with such heat, in a parallel universe, it would have sparked a fire that killed them all.

“You ready to give me some answers. Just a couple little questions. It’s not so hard, is it?” He entered the cell, flanked by two other soldiers. With the door shut, the room felt far too small and Enjolras and Grantaire, both standing now back against the furthest wall. Grantaire pressed his shoulder to Enjolras’s.

Enjolras spoke up for them. In his level, beautiful voice, he replied, “We will not answer. We will never answer. Not to swine like you. Not even with a dying breath would we tell you what you want, even if entrance to heaven rested upon our doing so.” Enjolras looked regal even in the dirty cell with bruises tarnishing his striking image.

“Wow. Aren’t you a hissy cat? Did not seem so hardened yesterday, when you begged me not to kill you wispy little friend.” The commander stroked Enjolras’s cheek as if to placate an angry child. Enjolras jerked his head away, exercising tremendous self-control in not biting the hand.

The commander looked amused. “Oh and how are you feeling, darling?” Grantaire shrank back against the wall. Enjolras practically growled at the Commander, stepping in front of Grantaire, not at all subtly. That may have been the greatest mistake he ever made.

The commander mouth spread into a wild grin, a crazed look shining in his eyes. It was the Cheshire smile that nightmares bear. “Grab the little one.”

A soldier clamped his arms around Grantaire, jerking him from behind Enjolras. The other soldier wrapped his arms around Enjolras, pinning his arms to his sides and holding him back, just as the blond lunged forward. Grantaire was tugged to the front of the room, where the commander grabbed him by his hair, holding his head down so he had to bend awkwardly, stressing his back. 

The commander gave Enjolras a few more words before leaving the room, dragging Grantaire by his inky curls, which Enjolras had so carefully combed. “You are both being remarkably uncooperative in this whole issue. Perhaps, this will persuade you to reevaluate your position on the matter.”

Enjolras was dropped like a sack of potatoes to the floor and locked alone in the cell room. He could hear them in the hallway. They did not seem to move far. In fact, from the footsteps and mumbled conversation, Enjolras would guess they were but a few feet from the door.

A quiet pierced the air as the voices hushed. A few rustles and whimpers sounded from outside, but through the thick door, Enjolras could hardly tell if they were real or imagined.

Then the screaming began. It started high and faded to a choked whimper before rising again and lowering, like swells in a sea. Each time Grantaire’s voice broke, so did a little part of Enjolras’s resolve, his brick walls of defense crumbling, the panic flooding in.

Enjolras threw himself upon the locked door. “Let him be. Grantaire. Grantaire!” He pounded the door until his knuckles all bled and still Grantaire screamed and sobbed. Enjolras did not cry, though his mind was a mess, because one of them had to be strong. They both must not both break.

Still, Enjolras was crazed to be so close to Grantaire and unable to help. It was a thousand times worse than the day before, because now he could not know what was happen. The screams had been nauseating yesterday, but today they were something out of the deepest circles of hell. Even demons themselves would have withered at the sound and begged for it to stop.

Finally, it ended, like a summer storm, which attacks you unexpectedly and then leaves without a second glance. Grantaire ragged breath was the only sound Enjolras heard, and he sounded so close to the door. Enjolras murmured reassurances in a hoarse voice.

“Grantaire, you’ll be fine. I’m right here. It will be okay.” If Grantaire could hear, he did not reply. Enjolras felt panic in his chest as he realized that he could not lose Grantaire. Grantaire was important. He mattered. And most of all, he was the only preventing Enjolras from facing this all alone. In some way, this was not a realization, but something Enjolras had always known but never noticed.

After far too long, the door opened and Grantaire was thrown roughly back in. A bundle was slipped to the corner after him. It was the same soldier from the day before, who had given him bread, water and a sheet. The soldier met Enjolras’s eye for just a brief second. The man was hardly more than a teenager, younger than Enjolras’s, with brown hair and eyes that flashed golden in his lantern light, before he closed the door.

The moonlight was the only light they had and Grantaire was hardly more than a shadow after the shine from the lantern in the hall. As Enjolras’s eyes adjusted, he wished they would not. Grantaire was slumped on his side, his back to Enjolras, still whimpering.

Enjolras knelt beside him and he hesitantly reached out his hand to touch Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire flinched violently.

“It’s me. It’s Enjolras.” Grantaire relaxed. His shirt was gone, and his back was sliced from yesterday, with fresh bruises. Enjolras carefully pulled Grantaire into his arms, holding him against his chest. Grantaire’s chest was wet with a blood and the metallic scent permeated the air. He had new, shallow cuts on his chest. One collarbone was hot and blistered from a burn.

Grantaire sat between Enjolras’s legs and turning his torso, buried his face in Enjolras’s shirt.

“It hurts, Enjolras.” Grantaire’s voice sounded so small and innocent.

“I know. I know it does.” Grantaire pushed himself closer to Enjolras, as if he could hide from the world within him. Enjolras put his arms around Grantaire as gently as he could for fear of being directly responsible for Grantaire’s pain. It did hurt Grantaire a little, but he did not notice the difference. He cried, his eyes screwed shut, and his tears falling onto Enjolras’s shirt.

Enjolras touched Grantaire’s jaw and tilted the man’s face up. He looked so broken. Enjolras leaned down; kissing the cynic’s closed eyes with feather-light touches and soft lips.

Grantaire eyes fluttered open and, before Enjolras could move away, he tilted his head up and kissed Enjolras, not on the cheek or nose, but on the lips. It was Enjolras’s first kiss and Grantaire's three hundred and thirtieth, but such facts are of little consequence.

It was gentle and warm, mingled with tears and blood. Their lips were parted slightly, but it was not hot and passionate. Such kisses are for the desperate, whether it is desperation from lust or desperation from worrying, they is always frantic. This was slow, beautiful, and imperfect as first kisses often are.

Grantaire pulled back first, turning away from Enjolras, far more afraid now than he was minutes ago outside. For while physical pain can scar and twist, plunging the eloquent to insanity, the pain of rejection from the one person you live for, goes against the basic instincts of humans, and can entirely break a person.

Luckily, Grantaire was not being rejected.

Grantaire had admired Enjolras since he first looked on his angelic face and worshiped Enjolras since he first heard his passionate words, but Grantaire had never started to love Enjolras. He simply did, as if he always had and always would. Do not mistake this for an illusion to the concept of soul mates; such ideas are folly, rather this is love, not predestined but still absolute, unhealthy and obsessive, yet unfortunately, conditions such as this are not conscious choices. Grantaire’s love was an example of the lack of true free will.

Enjolras was not so in love with Grantaire. He had not been instantly infatuated with a stubbled, dirty drunk, who interrupted his protest. In fact, he’d thrown him out. Yet the drunk came back stubbornly. Enjolras had been frustrated by Grantaire. He had demanded to know why he stayed, if he cared for nothing. When you are brilliant, the things unexplainable or irrational are tremendously frustrating.

Yet, in this moment, Enjolras realized Grantaire was something special. They were perfect complements and opposites. While Grantaire chose skepticism, Enjolras chose faith, yet when Enjolras chose logic, Grantaire chose irrationality. And Enjolras did make a choice to love Grantaire, not as a god, but as a man, with flaws like all humans.

They truly were light and darkness. People often mistake opposite to mean completely different from, however this is wrong, as opposites are both quite similar. Take hot versus cold for example. Both are measurements of heat, making them a lot closer than hot versus trees. These are truly different. Grantaire and Enjolras were opposites, different in a way that truly made one another the perfect fit. 

Enjolras turned Grantaire’s head back towards him and kissed him again. It was quick, but it was clear. Grantaire had promised Enjolras would see, and he was seeing, seeing something better then Patria or maybe Grantaire was just like Patria for both were wild.

Enjolras stripped his own shirt off and put it on the stone for Grantaire to lie on while Enjolras moved to the package left by the golden-eyed soldier. It had a rag, a pitcher of water, a loaf of pain de campagne, and a little brown jar of ointment.

Enjolras began by washing the blood from Grantaire’s torso and then gently rubbed in the medicine. Grantaire was silent throughout this, never crying out, though the medicine stung and his whole body ached. He was happier than he had ever been in his life.

They laid the sheet from the night before out to sleep on and Enjolras slotted his body beside Grantaire’s, draping his arms around the smaller man. Enjolras bare chest was flush to Grantaire’s back though he did not press them together do to the numerous injuries. Laying Enjolras’s shirt over the both of them, Enjolras closed his eyes, Grantaire’s hair tickling his chin. Soon both men were asleep.

The sun rose the next day, as it has a habit of doing, but Enjolras and Grantaire did not wake until it had drifted considerably across the sky. 

It only made sense that Apollo's incarnate woke first. But, just barely, before Grantaire like the moon, followed. Grantaire looked blissfully happy, rolling over to face Enjolras.

His face fell suddenly. “I didn't dream that, did I?”

Enjolras would have laughed at how cute Grantaire looked when he worried, if he hadn't looked also so distraught. Enjolras kissed Grantaire's nose reassuringly.

“No. That happened.” Grantaire's face broke into a smile again, as if he could not bear to keep it from his face a moment longer.

“Good.”

Enjolras smiled shyly back.

Grantaire stretched like a cat and regretted it almost immediately. He groaned at the dull pain across his body. 

“Is it really awful?” Enjolras looked guilty, though Grantaire could not fathom how any of this could possibly be his fault.

He considered lying and saying he was fine, but decided against it. “I wouldn’t want to feel like this every day, but it's not as bad as I thought it would be. Definitely, way better than it was last night.”

And so it was. Amazingly enough, Grantaire looked considerably healed from last night. His cuts were scabbed and his bruises had faded to yellow. The burn on his shoulder was had lost inflammation and the blisters had shrunk. It was miraculous

“After breakfast, we should probably clean those again. Especially as the medicine is working.” Enjolras did not miss the way Grantaire's face brightened even more at the mention of breakfast.

“Whatever you say, Apollo.” Grantaire winked. Enjolras would never understand how he could be so positive through everything, and still an undeniable cynic. Enjolras did not understand that for Grantaire, last night, though the circumstance was less than ideal, his greatest wish had come true.

The bread was dense and wonderful and they drank from the pitcher liberally. It was a large loaf, and they still had some of the bread from the day before. They ate in silence, but it was not because they had run out of conversation, but simply because they were chewing. Grantaire's manners were frankly abhorrent, but Enjolras decided to give him special dispensation because he was hurt. By the end of their meal, they were both full. Without food to occupy his mouth, Grantaire began questioning Enjolras.

“Who gave us this again?” Grantaire was quite curious about the donor.

“I don't know, some guy!” Enjolras was almost bothered by Grantaire's questions (they had been on this strain for a half an hour and Enjolras still had no more information than he had at the beginning.)

“Okay. Okay. Is he pretty?”

“Grantaire! Is nothing serious to you?” Enjolras was not actually annoyed though.

“On the contrary, that is a very serious question.” Grantaire pulled a poker face with his eyebrows furrowed in concentration that honestly made him look a little constipated.

“No, he is not pretty.”

“Eh, that doesn't tell me anything. You are a biased audience.”

Enjolras looked almost offended at being told his opinion was unreliable. Grantaire backpedaled.

“I mean, you're so pretty, everything probably seems drab in comparison.”

“Oh, do be quiet, Grantaire. You're embarrassing yourself.” Yet Grantaire did not look the least bit embarrassed, while Enjolras was blushing. In fact, Grantaire looked rather smug.

Enjolras cuffed him, lightly of course, on the side of the head. “Come on, let's clean all... those.” Grantaire looked down at his mangled torso. He probably did need them dressed. Enjolras grabbed the rag and poured some water on it, before he began brushing it over Grantaire's back. In the daylight, he got rid of all the smears of blood he had missed in the shadow of night. He then moved to the front of Grantaire. The blond kneeled in front of the cynic who sat cross-legged.

As he gently cleaned the cuts, running the cloth over the ridges of his ribs, Enjolras decided to ask what had been bothering him since the beginning of this ordeal, “When did you get so skinny?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Just kinda happened. I don’t know. Everything was pretty fucked up.”

“I should have noticed.” Enjolras hung his head. Grantaire punched him lightly in the shoulder.

“You were busy. Not everything is your fault. It seems we have this conversation a lot, but it still doesn't stick in that little head of yours. You're not a machine, Enjolras. You're human.”

“When we get out, I'll take you out to dinner and get you the biggest meal I can.”

Grantaire thought Enjolras's naivety was adorable. They were not going to get out of this. They would die, probably slowly, possibly right here in this cell. Grantaire nodded anyways. “I'll hold you to that.”

Enjolras put the medicine on clinically, but Grantaire made dirty jokes anyways. The opportunity was just to perfect to pass up and Enjolras's cheeks flushed just so nicely.

It was almost polite of the commander to wait until early afternoon to come. They were both awake and relaxed, but also had not been forced to wait in anticipation long into the night. For the time being, no words were needed.

The two soldiers who accompanied the commander this time just grabbed Enjolras and Grantaire by the upper arms and guided them to the office. The soldiers were not cruel, they used no more force than necessary, and they even avoided Grantaire's burned arm. After the past few days, they seemed practically kind.

As before, the commander sat behind the desk while Enjolras and Grantaire stood side by side in the middle of the room with the soldier along the wall guarding the door. They stood more injured than they were the first time, but this time they had food in their stomachs and happiness in their hearts. They did not sway or quake as they stood.

“I suppose I don't have to explain what I want from you.” The commander looked at the two rebels. They shook their heads.

The commander did not beat around the bush. “This really needn't be this hard. Answer just a few questions.” Enjolras raised an eyebrow to communicate his disdain with the repetitious nature of this all.

So the commander decided to try a new angle. “…and we won’t lay a finger on him. Promise.” It was phrased as a bargain, but Enjolras read it as the threat it was. He glanced at Grantaire, who was stony faced.

“Why should we trust you not to go back on us? You're probably a lying scum like the rest of the government.” A muscle twitched in the commander's jaw as he glared at Enjolras.

“I swear on the King of France and on God himself. And we have two witness right here.” The soldier nodded mechanically, as is the militant way.

Enjolras had always been trusting, and while Grantaire wouldn't have put any stock in the commander’s word, Enjolras did. He didn't have any other options anyways. Luckily, Enjolras trust was well placed. The commander was a devout in every aspect of life and held respect for those few individuals with greater power than himself, which is to say, royalty and God.

“Fine I will answer some of your questions.” Grantaire was glaring at Enjolras, but the blond did not look at the cynic. He could not.

“Who is your leader?”

“No.” The commander looked annoyed, but moved on to another question. Might as well attempt a different tactic for a while.

“How was the barricade planned?”

Enjolras decided this was a question that could be answered without putting any of his friends in danger. “There is an organization. They meet in various locals across the city. Occasionally, they have protests or rallies. They orchestrated the rebellion.”

The commander looked pleased to get something out of them finally. “Where is the base?”

Enjolras half smiled at this. “The Cafe Musain.” At least the was where it was. But, it had been so damaged in the fighting that the Cafe would not be fit for use for a long time. His friends would undoubtedly find a new meeting place. Les Amis would continue even without him. An avalanche does not stop, even if the original boulder is removed.

Perhaps the commander was unaware of the current state of the Musain because he was excited, gleeful even. “Tell me, a leader. That's all I need. Give me a name.”

“No.”

“Then give me other member’s names.”

“No.”

The commander's lips narrowed to a thin line. “You will not leave this room until you have told me the names.”

“Then, I suppose I ought to get comfortable.” Enjolras looked serene and resolved. If the commander had been wiser, he would have given up on ever getting the information from Enjolras and shot him as he stood. However, the commander was a naïve and folly as Enjolras himself.

“Hold that one.” Grantaire was pulled back by a soldier.

“But you said-” Enjolras might have looked desperate, but instead he looked betrayed.

“And I will keep my word. But to you I made no promises.” No one looked at Grantaire. All attention was on the center of the room. Grantaire did not move, but his eyes flared like a fire doused with oil. Any man with a shred of self-preservation would have run with a glance at Grantaire. However, no one looked.

Enjolras was still calm. Honestly, he was unconcerned with physical pain. He had long left the age where a blade might part his lips with truth. “You are stupider than you look if you think you will make me speak.”

The commander had attempted blows on Enjolras before with no gains, but he tried again. He slammed Enjolras against the stone wall. The blond did not even groan. He even had the audacity to look bored. Grantaire's eyes were fixed on Enjolras. The commander pulled a blade and held it to Enjolras's throat.

“TELL ME OR I SWEAR I WILL KILL YOU AS YOU STAND.” Enjolras did not even grace the commander with a spoken refusal. He could recognize bluff, when given. The commander probably had orders to get the information before killing either. Grantaire had guessed as much as well, but still felt fire pulse through his temples as a blade was held to Enjolras pale neck.

The commander yanked Enjolras forward by his arm. Both Enjolras and Grantaire's shirts were lost, Grantaire's who knows where and Enjolras's safe within their lovely little cell. He slammed Enjolras against the desk, cleared of papers this time. The commander was truly maniacal. He traced Enjolras's spine with the tip of his knife, not hard enough to break the skin. 

The entire room was silent, but for the harsh breathing of both the commander and Enjolras. Grantaire seemed to have forgotten about oxygen.

The commander’s mouth twitched into a smile with glazed eyes as he slashed with the blade. Blood bubbled up in a thin line from Enjolras's shoulder to his lower back. Grantaire's body tensed. A look of hunger was on the commander's face. He stared at the blood as an addict stare's at a fix. He smeared it with one finger. Enjolras remained stoically motionless. The hand moved to Enjolras's hair.

His hair was long, perfect golden ringlets, about to his shoulder, the envy of men and women alike. Many people describe all blond hair as “golden,” but that is simply not true. Many blonds instead are so pale they glisten white in the sunlight, or have more of a straw-like hue, or even undertones of red. Few in fact have true golden hair. However, Enjolras did. His hair seemed as if the sunlight itself had been concentrate into beautiful, glistening, sleek curls. Grantaire had always felt Enjolras's hair fit him. Many others face’s would have been overpowered had they possessed such hair, but it seemed logical that such an extraordinary man as Enjolras had extraordinary hair.

And it was for that that Grantaire's blood heated as hands that were not his touched that hair. And those hands clenched, tugging the hair, forcing Enjolras's head back and his jaw up.

The owner of those hands leaned down and hissed in Enjolras's ear. “Just tell me the names, pretty boy.” The glare he received was enough of a response.

The commander of the Army glanced back over his shoulder at Grantaire, who looked so tense he might snap. “What? Surely you don't mind sharing.” Grantaire's face went white as he clenched his jaw.

“Oh my. You do mind.” The commander straightened back up, pulling Enjolras's head further back, the tendons in his neck standing out. “You like him, don't you.” The commander had already succeeded using Grantaire to get to Enjolras. It was only logical the inverse would work.

“Tell me the names now and you can keep him. Otherwise, we'll break him. Little faggot has it coming in hell any ways.” Enjolras stiffened where he lay. Even he wasn’t inexperienced enough not to pick up on what was being threatened

“Hey, pretty boy.” He growled softly into Enjolras ear. “You a virgin?” The blush on Enjolras's pale cheeks was enough of an answer.

Grantaire felt the hands holding him to the wall tighten, as if they expected him to lunge.

The commander released Enjolras's hair and move one arm to pin him by his back to the desk, while the other trailed lower, to the top of his pants.

“Just the names.”

Grantaire probably would have told them too, if not for Enjolras hissing, “Don't you dare, R.” Enjolras had never used his nickname before, which reminded him of how his other friends did and that he would never forgive himself for betraying them, and Enjolras probably never would either.

The commander hooked his fingers in Enjolras waistband and tugged the pants down. They had always fit loosely and fell to his ankles, leaving him standing in just his drawers. Enjolras's face burned from humiliation to know Grantaire would see it all.

A hand was hooked in his drawers and Enjolras flinched. For the first time in questioning, he flinched. And the commander reveled in the power.

However, the commander had made a major error in assuming Grantaire weak, from his bony frame and injuries. With a strong enough incentive and a sober mind, Grantaire can fight like hell. He beat Bahorel once.

And this was a time, if ever there were a time, to fight. He kneed the soldier pinning him in the crotch and slammed him on the temple with the side of his fist on the way down. He did not rise. The second soldier barely reacted before Grantaire jabbed him with half fists under the rib cage, knocking all breath out of him. That soldier collapsed, and while still conscious, chose to act so to avoid further injury.

This happened in but a few seconds, and the commander did not even turn, assuming the thumps were simply Grantaire's futile struggles. He did not see the tackle coming, but the next thing he knew he was on the ground. Grantaire straddled his chest and punched him repeatedly in the throat and face. The commander’s head lolled to the side, but Grantaire grabbed his face and angled it towards his.

“Never or I will kill you.” Grantaire would have killed the commander then, but he had no means and could already hear footfall outside the door. Soon he felt arms pull him back and he watch the commander gather himself and stand, ordering Enjolras and he were returned to their cell. Enjolras had yanked his pants back up, but still walked with his head hung in shame, an emotion that ought not to have bothered such a proud man. Grantaire was vibrating from adrenalin and the hallway seemed to streak past.

Then they were in the cell, door locked, and safe. Grantaire never thought he would consider his prison safe, but for the moment, it felt so. Enjolras immediately shrank into the back corner, while Grantaire stared at the door for several long minutes, until he decided no one was coming. He cracked his bruised knuckles, but the pain felt like a trophy. And the commander never laid a finger on Enjolras again.

He sat down beside Enjolras, who had pulled his knees to his chest. Enjolras now felt bare and exposed without a shirt.

“Enjolras. It's okay.” The blond did not move. His eyes stared ahead blankly, but he did not cry. He felt weak enough already.

“It's alright to be frightened.” The shock broke and Enjolras unfurled, practically leaping towards at Grantaire, who accepted him with open arms, though more than a little confused. The force landed Grantaire on his side, which hurt quite a bit, but he did not notice. Enjolras wrapped his body with Grantaire's, their legs tangling. Grantaire encircled Enjolras with his arms and Enjolras felt they protected him far better than any armor.

They were close, closer than they had been before, nose touching, so near they could feel each other’s heart beat.

Enjolras was the first to speak. “I was frightened and humiliated. I felt so weak.”

“You're the bravest person I've ever met.” Enjolras snorted at how sappy that was.

“Don't laugh! I'm telling the truth.” Enjolras snorted again at the hurt expression on Grantaire's face. “I'm bearing my soul to you and you simply scoff. Wow. Thanks.”

“I didn’t want… I don’t like-”

“Enjolras, I know. I’ve watched you turn down enough offers to know that.”

“And you don’t care that I wouldn’t want to have sex with you?” He’d heard so many freak jokes before from Courfeyrac, even without confirmation as to his preferences.

“Not that much.” And Grantaire actually did not, he was willing to take what he could get and honestly, they probably would not have lived long enough even if Enjolras had possessed the inclination.

“Thank you.” Enjolras brushed Grantaire's nose with his. The words were so over used and common, an expected social convention, that Enjolras felt they did not properly convey how grateful he was that Grantaire did not leave him alone at the barricade, that Grantaire did not sell him out, that Grantaire went through torture for him, that Grantaire stopped... it, and that Grantaire made him feel better just here by just being him, joking and arguing as always.

That was when Enjolras realized how deeply Grantaire loved him and how long he had loved him. It might have taken him years to come to this epiphany if not for the current circumstances. But, the threat of death and fear of loss makes one act first think later, and in this mentality, Enjolras brushed his lips against Grantaire's cheek and breathed, “I love you.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Thank god.”

Grantaire kissed Enjolras and this time it was not soft and sweet. This time it was hard and fast, because such kisses are born of desperation and they were desperate. Desperate to live, and not just live as defined by a beating heart and expanding lungs, but to live where you wake up and do not move because you are warm, free, and happy. Live where you stand in the middle of the rain, because it is cold and invigorating and if you were a poet, who you are not, you would write horribly sappy, melancholy poetry about it. Unfortunately, living is not always a choice.

And so they kissed. They crashed together like waves on the sand. Grantaire kissed Enjolras's jaw then bit down towards his collarbone, but gently, for both had had enough pain. Then again, they kissed. It was sloppy and messy. Enjolras was not perfect at it within minutes of trying. Their noses crashed on several occasions and it was awkward and ill paced, because it was natural and real, and for them both, that was enough. They fell asleep on accident, had it been their choice they would not have given a minute to unconsciousness, but alas, they had little control.

Their dreams were white, black and every color, yet nothing at all at the same time. Occasionally, a shape would appear in the mist and it all would be clear, but just as quickly it would fade away into confusion. When they woke, these dreams slipped away. It was not light or well restedness that woke them but confusion and noise.

It began with a blast that shook the building, reverberating through stone, followed by pounding footsteps in the hall, and many shouting voices. Grantaire rubbed his eye groggily, mumbling for Courfeyrac to leave him alone to sleep. Enjolras shot straight up, alert and ready. He shook Grantaire until he to sat up too, grumbling the whole time.

The commotion outside seemed only to elevate as more and more shouting voices arrived. It was too garbled for them to make out anything, but Enjolras tried anyways, pressing his ear to the bottom of the door. After a half an hour or so, the calm began to return, the voices moving away.

Grantaire and Enjolras glanced at each other, just to check that the other was just as confused as they were.

“I guess we should just try to go back to sleep?”

 Enjolras shrugged. But they did not get the chance to sleep any more that night. Hurried steps of leather boots on stone floor made their way to their door. It was thrown open and they were pulled to the office quickly.

The commander was sitting there. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair. He had two black eyes and a scraped jaw. Grantaire was proud to be responsible for those injuries. Six soldier lined up in the back of the room, all not much older than Grantaire and Enjolras, some even younger. The golden-eyed boy stood to the corner, back straight at attention like the others. 

There was no tense silence, lingering glares, or pretend cordiality.

The question was forceful and tired. They all knew what it was and hardly needed to be asked. “Where are your people? Tell me now!” The sudden burst of uncontrolled rage might have startled the audience in the room if they were not use to it.

Grantaire was tired and grouchy. “How thick are you? We are not going to tell you.” The commander's fingers flexed into a fist, before smoothing back out on the table. He pushed back in his chair standing. The commander threw up his hands in defeat.

“You're right. I'm wasting my time.” He strode around until he was standing right in front of Grantaire. There was a time Grantaire would have been scared, but he had lost even the respect necessary to fear for the commander. The commander leaned in to Grantaire, and whispered in his ear, humid breath stale, “You have been such an pain in my ass.”

Enjolras stood shoulder to shoulder with Grantaire, shying away from the commander slightly. He was scared of the commander after last night; the man had no limits.

The Commander closed his eyes and breathed out, like a spiritual instructor. And he pulled out his dagger from his pocket, stabbing it deep into Grantaire's stomach and pulling it out just as fast. He stepped away, wiping the blood off on his pants. Grantaire's mouth parted in an unheard scream as he buckled to his knees. He put a hand to his stomach and seemed almost surprised when it came off red. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed, the pool of blood spreading around him.

If this were a love story there would be a final kiss, a whispered “I love you” against cooling lips. There would be horrible screaming, begging god to give him back, and a lover throwing themselves across the immobile body, swearing they will not leave them. Perhaps there would even be cursing, angry punches aimed at no one in particular.

But this is not a love story and Enjolras simply stood in shock, as Grantaire fell and a soldier with golden eyes came forward to carry the body away. Enjolras’s lips were slightly parted but no sound came. He seemed a frozen statue, carved of marble as Grantaire had often joked. However, statues do not cry and Enjolras did, so the imagery was lost.

In the past, he did not cry because he was a leader, because he was depended on, because he must be strong. But now he did cry because he had no one to lead, no one depending on him, no one to be strong for. It was not a manly single tear that would slide down glistening, but they were fast tears that left his cheeks a blotchy red, with an accompaniment of choked sobs. It was quick and heavy, then they subsided as anger, shock, and apathy filtered in. Lucky for him, because the commander was not a patient man.

“So who is your leader?”

Enjolras could have laughed at the faith this man had that he would ever get his answers.

“Napoleon Buonaparte.” Enjolras could not simply leave him without answer, that would be cruel.

“The leader of the rebellion.”

“Yes, he led the rebellion.” Enjolras's had schooled his face to a neutral expression.

“Answer these honestly or you'll get the same as your little friend. Where is the leader?”

Enjolras thought of how Grantaire had a quip for every situation. “Oh, he's in America.”

The commander looked incredulous. “America?”

“Yes, well he got tired of the idiotic system considered a government here. Decided it might be nice to know what freedom is like.”

The commander was on edge again. He slammed his fists onto the desk. “BE SERIOUS.”

Enjolras paused to consider this option. He weighed the advantages and disadvantages. His brows were close, worry lines on his forehead as he gnawed his bottom lip. Finally, he appeared to come to a decision.

“I am wild.”

And so was the rest of the world. Chaos is the very foundation of everything and anyone who says differently is lying (so they are probably in the government.) In keeping with the same principle, the door slammed open, and a rush of people in black masks flooded in.

The soldier drew guns and the stranger drew theirs. Shots ricocheted around the room. The commander was hit in the chest. He fell and did not rise. Enjolras did not care. Blades were pulled, as there was no time to reload. The soldiers were overwhelmed, some were knocked out, but most were shot, as is the nature of war and revolution.

Someone grabbed Enjolras and pulled him through the crowd. He did not see what side they were from. He did not care what side they were from. Both groups could be equally enemy to him. He allowed himself to be guided through the hall, full with smoke from guns. They went past his cell, and upon turning a corner, were in a part of the prison unknown to Enjolras. He let the hands push him indifferently. They finally reached a dead end passage, or what should have been a dead end passage, were it not for a massive hole blast through the rock. The masked stranger crawled over the rubble before offering Enjolras a hand to help him through. He did not take the hand, wary of aid, and believing it unnecessary. He did not realize how, half naked, cut, and bruised, he seemed he should need help. Enjolras was weak, for he is not a god, but he had not realized this yet.

And through a gap in the mighty prison, Enjolras stumbled back into outside world. The moon had sunk away and the sun would soon appear in the horizon. But for now, they stood in the twilight zone before dawn, with enough light to see all shapes, but not enough to see color. They made their escape into a world of gray.

 The man in black (for Enjolras assumed it was a man from the flat chest and straight hips) grabbed his hand and pulled him fast away. They were almost running, but Enjolras was not quite up to that. After several streets, alleys and short cuts, they stopped.

Enjolras was pulled against a shadowed, mangy wall to rest. His guide did not give him long though, for even shadows tell secrets. He pulled Enjolras in through a dirty door with a rotting doorframe, which was carefully locked behind them. Only then did he take off the mask.

The golden eyes were reunited with the face of the soldier who had given them bread. Clearly an underground spy, Enjolras should have seen it sooner. Yet the gratitude he should feel did not come. Enjolras did not bother with small talk or trivial thanks.

The silence between them grew, accompanied only by the sounds of nights. Somewhere, people were still up, drinking, laughing and kissing, living there lives freely. Enjolras wished Grantaire were one of them. In that moment, he would have given nothing more than for Grantaire to stumble out of a darkened doorway, cheeks red with drink, swaying precariously, behaving far too raucously for the late hour. Hell, Enjolras was nostalgic for the times Grantaire threw up on him and passed out at meetings.

The soldier now looked deeply uncomfortable, shuffling from foot to foot. He seemed hesitant to speak, as if afraid of spooking Enjolras, but also concerned to leave the man alone with his thoughts for too long.

“They are in there.” The soldier nodded down a narrow hallway branching off form the entrance hall. Enjolras did not know who they were, but figured any company would be better than the company he currently kept. While logically Enjolras knew the soldier had put a lot at risk for him, gutturally Enjolras could not help but place Grantaire’s death at the soldier feet. If he had acted sooner…

The hallway ended with a single door, beneath which crept muffled voices and muted light. Enjolras debated knocking, yet social etiquette seemed incredibly trivial in that moment, and so he pushed the door open to meet the occupants.

“Enjolras!” Enjolras found himself wrapped up in familiar arms, and gratefully allowed his body to sag into them, fatigue washing over him. Combeferre stared down at Enjolras, his eyes brimming with tears to hold his friend once again. Glancing around the room, Enjolras saw the rest of his followers, who were also his friends. Save one face, of course. Jehan offered Enjolras a small, empathetic smile.

The emotion that washed over Enjolras was enough to knock the breath from his lips. He recalled the failed fight; glad that, though he was captured, they were not. But that brought on a rush of other events in the past days: Grantaire’s hoarse screams as he was tortured because he would not give up Enjolras, the fear that had flooded through Enjolras as his pants were wrenched down, the press of Grantaire’s lips, the pooling of Grantaire’s blood.

The room spun around Enjolras and the faces of his friends blurred. Enjolras felt himself collapse to his knees, Combeferre cradling his head, as someone else had once held him. The air had grown thick and refused to fill his lungs. He felt Combeferre tighten his grip on his arm. Enjolras closed his eyes and focused on that feeling. Gradually, Combeferre’s voice came to focus.  

“Breathe Enjolras. It is over now.”

Enjolras shook his head desperately.

Combeferre squeezed his arm again, refocusing him. “What is it?”

“It won’t be.” Enjolras drew in another staggered breather. “It’ll never be over not with him… not with him…” Enjolras choked upon his words.

Courfeyrac knelt beside him. “Who are you talking about? Enjolras, please.” Courfeyrac looked serious and pleading, an expression that should not have graced with such a boisterous man.

“Grantaire.”

Combeferre’s face dawned with understanding. “He’s going to be alright.”

Enjolras blinked, not processing.

Combeferre continued, “I got shot in the stomach and I survived. Grantaire was stabbed and he’ll make it as well. He might actually be awake by now. He’s at the other end of the hall.”

Enjolras did not await another word. He needed to see Grantaire for himself to dare let himself hope. At the opposite end of the hall, there was smaller room. Enjolras pushed the door open and lying on a cot, stomach wrapped in thick white bandages, was Grantaire. The rise and fall of his chest seemed as much a miracle and beauty of nature as a shooting star.  

Someone had cleaned the rest of his wounds, and washed his hair and face of matted blood and grime. Enjolras grabbed for Grantaire’s hand, shaking at the warmth he found there. Enjolras began to cry in earnest, a smile tugging at his face. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who had followed, turned from the doorway to award some privacy.

Enjolras climbed on the cot beside Grantaire, gently wrapping him in his arms. Grantaire weekly opened his eyes, blinking a few times as his eyes adjusted and as he oriented himself to his surroundings.

“Are you crying?” Grantaire teased Enjolras, relaxing into his arms. Enjolras sunk into the pillows, imagining nothing more perfect in that moment than sleeping with Grantaire in his arms.

His friends would continue planning their next movement into the night. But there would be months to plan, years even, so Enjolras did not join them. They would do it right this time, beginning with a movement to educate the people, to touch their hearts and mind, so that the next time, they rose up against the tyranny, the whole of France would be at their sides.

More importantly though, Grantaire would be at Enjolras’s side to see in the new world. Grantaire would never admit it, yet he had grown to believe in the cause as well. Either way, it did not matter to Enjolras. Grantaire simply as Grantaire was enough for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I wrote the happy ending. I did the thing. I will probably come back and edit it at some point, because I'm not completely happy with it, but for now this will do.
> 
> Thank you every one who read. You are my favorite. I would love to here your opinions on this piece or the topics addressed in this piece. 
> 
> Again, I am not Ace, but I chose to write Enjolras as a sexual, but romantic, because I feel he is both canonically that and want more ace representation, cause quite frankly, gay guys who bang like bunnies are getting old (and starting to feel a tad fetished) If this was offensive, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. I do not aim to offend (who the fuck would) and would be happy to change it.


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